


An Hour and a Half to Midnight

by HiddenLacuna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Formalwear, Kilts, M/M, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's New Year's Eve, and they're late for a party, but Sherlock's fast asleep. What's a John Watson to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Hour and a Half to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



> Thank you so much to thisprettywren and lifeonmars for the last-minute New Year's Eve beta. I would kiss you both at midnight. :D
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone!

John Watson was a superstitious man. No one comes through a combat zone without getting used to a little forced luck – throwing spilled salt over a left shoulder, never putting boots on a bed, picking up coins and then throwing them into a fountain with a wish. So, by God and all that’s holy, he intended to be kissing his lover at midnight to ensure that the coming year was filled with more of the same. There was a bottle of real champagne from France chilling in the fridge next to the baggie of ears packed in salt. They had bacon and eggs and orange juice waiting for breakfast - which, John fervently hoped, would be more in the mid-to-late-afternoon range. Possibly after some New Year’s Morning shagging.

And yet, here they were, an hour and a half to midnight. Sherlock had dressed, sprawled out across the sofa, then promptly fallen asleep and not moved for the past three hours. Lanky, inconveniently dozy git.

John knew that, antisocial as Sherlock was, he hadn’t purposefully burrowed into sleep to avoid the evening’s festivities. John knew genuine exhaustion when he saw it. They had been visiting Mummy over Christmas, with all the paper hats, acrid dinner conversation, and charade choices from thirty years ago had taken a lot out of Sherlock; then visiting Harry in Aberdeen for her awkward “Everything’s Normal, Damn it” weekend following that had taken the rest. They’d only arrived back in London that morning, and even if they had (mostly) slept on the train, they were both exhausted.

But if there was no rest for the wicked, then they were solidly in the “naughty” column, because Molly had invited them over for the evening. It would break Molly’s heart if they missed her New Year’s Eve party – the first she and Greg were throwing as a couple – so John had informed Sherlock that, come hell, high water or late-breaking Mayan Apocalypse, they were going to kit themselves out properly and ring in the New Year in style.

At half-five, they’d gone down to share a lovely New Year’s Eve meal with Mrs Hudson – “Oh, I never can stay up to midnight these days, loves, just can’t keep my eyes open. I’ll ring in the new year in the morning.” – and Sherlock had actually eaten everything on the plate Mrs Hudson had put together for him, which, John realized, had almost certainly contributed to the sudden somnolence.

While Sherlock dressed in his usual black-as-midnight, tight-as-sin evening wear, John had tartaned himself up in his father’s kilt and charlie, even pulling out the fly plaid and giant amber faux cairngorm brooch. His cream hose were neatly folded over his matching Watson-tartan flashes, and his razor-sharp sgain dubh was tucked securely into his left hosetop. Into his sporran he’d tucked ID, cash, and a small flask containing Highland Park 18 for luck. If he did say so himself, he thought he looked rather dashing.

And he was, apparently, going to have to say so himself, since Sherlock was lightly drooling onto the cushion.

John smiled and shook his head. He put the kettle on for a cup of tea, and made perhaps a little more noise than was necessary getting out the tea bags and mugs. It didn’t matter. John knew from long experience that once Sherlock was asleep, he was unlikely to be roused by or for anything.

Well, except...

John checked his watch. Just after 10:30. If he started trying to wake Sherlock up now, they could still make it to Molly's at a reasonable, if not respectable, hour. By 11:30, at latest.

Sherlock turned onto his back, humming softly and smacking his lips. He stretched briefly, then settled again, the long column of his throat white in stark contrast between his hair and black bow tie. John pursed his lips.

Well. Certainly by midnight.

John stood over the sofa for a moment, considering just expediting matters and giving Sherlock a sternal rub with his knuckles. It would certainly be faster. But no. That would only result in hours of sulky, surly Sherlock, and his midnight kiss would certainly be forfeit in that case.

John bent at the waist and stroked his left hand along Sherlock’s thigh from knee to groin, admiring the rough-slick feeling of the fine fabric under his palm. “Sherlock,” he said, softly. “Come on. Up.”

Sherlock snored delicately on.

Right then. Well, this was Sherlock’s favourite method of waking _him_ up on the weekend. Turnabout was always fair play in the Holmes-Watson household.

Gently, John cupped Sherlock’s testicles through the crotch of the trousers, enjoying their heat and weight. Pinching the zipper pull, he undid Sherlock’s fly and stroked his fingers into the gap. Huh. No pants. John wasn’t sure whether to chalk that up to pride or lust – either Sherlock hadn’t wanted to ruin the line of his trousers across his arse, or had been planning for a bit of impromptu post-midnight frisky – but either way, the effect was utterly sinful. He carded his fingers through the tightly coiled pubic hair, tugging lightly, and stretched a little further down to stroke his fingers along the length of Sherlock’s dormant cock before withdrawing to undo the button and hook closure.

John glanced up at Sherlock’s face. Still slack and peaceful. Either he was genuinely still completely asleep or was doing a wonderful job of shamming.

Pushing the trousers open into a V, John scooped Sherlock’s penis free and bent to take it fully into his mouth. It began to harden slowly as he suckled lightly at it, swirling his tongue completely around the head while it was still small enough to do so.

It didn’t take long until John was barely able to contain the entire cock, so he gave up trying and ran his lips down the side and his tongue back up the urethral ridge on the underside. He parted his lips and engulfed the head, wiggling his tongue into the hollow at the base of the glans. John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, watching as his eyes began to dart rapidly back and forth behind his closed eyelids. Still asleep then, unbelievably, and apparently dreaming. But John would bet his entire pension that it was a very good dream.

John continued to devour his lover’s cock - sometimes sucking, sometimes licking, sometimes scraping his teeth lightly over the flesh - as Sherlock began to moan and shift his hips up to meet him.

John reached up under the smooth white linen shirt until he found a nipple, then rolled it between his fingers. He flicked it with a fingertip as he swallowed Sherlock completely.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “John!” he gasped, and then looked down to realize that, yes, this really was happening. “John?” he asked, realization dawning, and reached with gratifyingly shaking fingers to touch John’s bobbing cheek. John pulled off his cock with a filthy smack, grinning. “About time you were up,” he said cheerfully, then licked up the entirety of Sherlock’s shaft and placed a kiss on the tip. He wrapped his other hand around the base and began to stoke quickly and firmly while he continued to do wicked things with his tongue and lips to the head.

Sherlock’s head thudded back against the arm of the sofa, twisting his fingers into John’s short hair. Sherlock gasped as John took advantage of his now-awake status to pull his trousers down over his hips and then nuzzled into his balls. John continued to stroke firmly, running his thumb over the slit in a circular motion as he drew first one, and then both, of Sherlock’s testicles into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, fuck,” Sherlock swore, as John swirled his tongue over every exposed millimetre. “Ah, ahh, ahhhhhhh!”

John felt the tightening of Sherlock’s testicles and swiftly moved to swallow the head of his cock to catch Sherlock’s semen. Mustn’t mar the trousers, after all.

Sherlock jammed the flesh of his thumb into his mouth as he came, biting hard against a shout that would surely wake Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner, and probably Mr Chatterjee as well all the way up in Doncaster. John stroked him through it, swallowing the bitter taste as quickly as possible. Might have to break into the Highland Park a little early.

“Come on, git, we’re still going to Molly’s. You can return the favour later.” John stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then reached to help a rather dazed-looking Sherlock to his feet.

“Believe me, I will,” Sherlock said, still breathing hard as he did up his trousers once more and smoothed his shirt. His eyes sharpened and darted across John’s outfit. John was suddenly, acutely aware of the cool air on his legs, the rough wool brushing his thighs, and the sporran’s weight on his straining erection. Sherlock sank to a crouch and looked up at John. He slid his hands under John’s kilt and brushed his hardness with the backs of his knuckles. “No pants,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I approve. ”

John bit his lip, hard. “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock,” he said, adjusting the sporran strategically. “I should have left you asleep. You’re a bloody menace, awake.”

“Probably,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping his fingers around John’s cock. “Oh, and John – you’re not to drink anything between now and midnight. I want to taste myself on you when I kiss you into the new year.” He gave John’s cock a final stroke and rose, gracefully, to his full height.

John gritted his teeth and checked the time. 11:15. Fuck it. “I don’t suppose you’d want to skip the party and just stay in tonight?” he asked, mentally apologizing to Molly in advance.

Sherlock moved in close and kissed him, cupping John’s buttocks through the thick twill and grinding their hips together. John groaned and kissed Sherlock’s neck above the bow tie. “Mmmmmmm,” Sherlock rumbled, stepping back. “But then I’d miss showing you off, and knowing that you’re just dying for me to take you home and flip your kilt over your head while I fuck you. Where would the fun in that be?”

And with that, he whirled and, gathering his coat and scarf from the hook in the hallway, clattered down the stairs to the street to hail them a cab. John breathed out deeply, counted down from ten, and followed him out into the snow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for An Hour and a Half to Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699632) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [Wake, Sherlock, Wake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882967) by [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/pseuds/cwb)




End file.
